Honey, I Shrunk the Kings
by Lirenel
Summary: Peter managed to escape from the clutches of the healers. Unfortunately, he forgot that he can't so easily escape his brother. More unfortunately, he forgot that it may not be a good idea to taunt a hag. Disaster ensues. *Any warnings can be found on my user page*
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Honey, I Shrunk the Kings  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own Narnia (or Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, but I really only used the name and the basic concept)  
**Note: **I think when I started writing this I was trying to write a humorous drama or something (possibly inspired by Ultra-Geek's wonderful Narnia stories that are hilarious but when you think about them you realize how serious they are). Anyway, it took me over a year to write this, so I don't know how it really ended up. Hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway.

Oh, also, I'm not a medical professional, but I did the best I could with the injuries, illnesses, diagnoses, and treatments used in this story. On the other hand, Peter and Edmund aren't medical professionals either, so I'm going to just going to blame them for any mistakes.

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Peter crept silently among the sparse trees. His sword, Rhindon, hung ready by his side, but he did not yet unsheathe it. The trees, young and far apart, provided small cover. He had to move swiftly if he didn't want to be…

"What do you think you're doing?"

…caught. Peter sighed and turned to face the figure, who was leaning against a linden tree. "Heaven's stars, Ed, I'm just going for a walk! I'm less than a mile away from Cair Paravel. You do _not_ need to be following me!"

Edmund frowned and pushed off the tree. "You're ill, Peter," he said slowly, as if explaining to a child that no, you do _not_ have wings and cannot fly if you jump off the roof. It was a tone Edmund had perfected in recent weeks, in fact, ever since Peter nearly _had_ jumped off a balcony in the midst of his fevered dreams.

Still, Peter had to protest. "It was a touch of the flu, and I'm almost completely over it." _'Please don't cough, please don't cough,'_ he silently begged his lungs.

His protests did not stop Edmund from slapping the back of his hand – a little too hard, in Peter's opinion – against the older king's forehead to check for fever. The fifteen-year old scowled when he did not find one. "_You _are very lucky that Healer Scelpus thinks you're fine to be out walking as long as you don't have a fever. But it is _still_ stupid to go out on your own without telling anybody, particularly when you've spent the past two weeks doing your best to rise to the Marshwiggles' most dire predictions for your health."

Despite the exaggeration, the scowl on Edmund's face was indicative of his belief that Peter should not be out and about by himself. Which meant Edmund was not going to be leaving him alone, just as he hadn't the past two weeks. Peter sighed and resigned himself to having company on his walk. It was not that he did not like spending time with Edmund; he just wanted to be _alone_ after being coddled and fussed over for days on end. "Fine," Peter snapped, a little harshly. "Just…give me some peace and quiet, will you?"

Luckily, Edmund did not mind being silent – and even promised not to say a word until Peter gave him permission – as long as he could keep a sharp eye on his brother. When Peter turned and strode off, the younger king even followed four whole feet behind his brother. Peter considered this to be a success.

So, with a shadow he tried to ignore, Peter was able to walk through the trees of Swealwen's Grove, a small woods near enough to Cair Paravel not to need a guard but far enough to be away from the hustle and bustle of home. For the first time in a long time Peter was able to feel the warmth of the spring sun on his face, smell the fragrance of new blossoms on the air,…listen to his brother constantly clear his throat. Peter clenched his teeth. Edmund was staying true to his promise not to speak, but apparently small coughs for attention were not covered under their agreement. And they were beginning to grate on Peter's already fragile nerves.

The older king was about to turn and snap at Edmund to just _talk_ and stop that infernal noise when the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. It was an instinctual warning sign that Peter had quickly learned to trust in battle. There was no battle now, but there was danger, and Peter's hand flew to the hilt of his sword.

As Edmund was already drawing his own sword, it seemed that Peter was not alone in his intuition. The brothers moved automatically to try and take up positions, back to back, in order to take in all possible avenues of attack, and Peter went to draw Rhindon from its sheath.

Suddenly an ear-piercing shriek burst through the air behind the High King, who whirled around in time to watch the air _ripple_ and slam straight into an unprepared Edmund. The younger king crumpled to the ground, sword spinning away from hands that now clutched at his chest. "Edmund!" Peter pivoted to stand next to his brother, but did not dare move to check him over, not when he could not see the source of the attack. Taking a defensive stance next to Edmund, who he could hear desperately trying to suck in his breath, Peter again reached to draw his sword.

He froze at the chilling cackle that echoed from the midst of the surrounding trees. "Ah, ah, ah! I wouldn't do that, little king. I won't be so easy on you again." And if the owner of the voice sent another magic attack, Rhindon would be of no help. Cursing softly, and wishing he had his shield, Peter slowly withdrew his hand.

A holly rustled, turning Peter's attention to it. Still cackling – rather annoyingly – a hag materialized from behind the tree, skin dirty and wrinkled, eyes red and heavy-lidded. There was something inherently repulsive surrounding her presence, which made Peter want to run to get away from it. He would not, of course; even if a strategic retreat was possible, he would not leave Edmund, who was only just recovering his breath. "What do you want?" Peter growled at the hag. Next to him, Edmund struggled to his feet; the younger king stood close to Peter, focusing his eyes on the hag only a moment before surveying their surroundings. Peter almost smiled, relieved that Edmund was well enough to follow their training and watch for other dangers so that Peter could focus his attention solely on the immediate threat.

The hag grinned at them, showing two rows of brown, rotting teeth. "I have all I want right here. Two little kings, all alone and helpless."

She was right on two parts: they were alone and they were relatively helpless – there were no guards, Edmund's sword was out of his reach, and neither king had a shield to block any attack, magic or otherwise. But Peter was not one to allow a villain a free pass at mocking him, regardless of how accurate a mockery it may be. "I hardly think _you _have any grounds on which to call _us _'little'!"

Indeed, the hag was over a foot shorter than the Narnian kings, both of whom were rather tall for their ages. So it _was _rather laughable that the small creature would call either young man 'little'. However, lacking in height though she was, the hag made up for it in her ability to use dark magic…and a temper as short as her stature.

The hag's eyes burned with a fire as dark as a thundercloud. "Little I called you," she shrieked, shrill voice shaking with fury. "Little I name you," A sharp wind rose up, crackling with dark power. "Little you shall be!" With a final shout, the hag pushed against air, throwing a burst of power towards the two kings.

There was not much Peter or Edmund could do in reaction. It did not help that they were struck with conflicting instincts: if it were not such a tense moment, it might have been amusing to see the brothers attempt to duck and cover while simultaneously attempting to shield each other from the hag's magic. As it was, Peter had the advantage in shielding attempts, being closer to the hag and having most of his attention on her, while Edmund had been keeping an eye out for other dangers. Therefore it was the High King who caught the brunt of the blast on the side of his head.

It was like being hit by a giant's club. A wooden club, probably more like oak than pine – Pine clubs tended to be thinner and caused more focused damage than the broader oak clubs. Peter and Edmund had had several arguments over which club they would rather be hit with: Peter preferred pine, though Edmund insisted that oak caused more widespread but possibly less dangerous injuries. So, as the two kings were sent flying through the air by the force of the hag's magic, Peter almost automatically classified the feel of the blow as more oak-like, and he spared a moment to be annoyed that he was hoping Edmund was right in his argument.

Then Peter hit the ground, heard a grating crack, and the world went dark.

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Peter came back to consciousness with a shrill shriek…that is, with a manly shout, as white-hot pain ran up his left leg and then decided to stop and have a pleasant cup of tea with the throbbing pain in his head. Letting loose a string of words that Susan would be appalled he even knew, Peter opened his eyes, trying to see what was happening to his leg while, at the same time, not moving anything. It was not very effective, especially since the world was currently spinning faster than usual.

The High King heard a rustle and then Edmund's face appeared in his line of vision. "Sorry about that. I thought it would be better to check for injuries while you were out of it. Looks like you landed on your knee, well, _wrong._"

Peter blinked, not necessarily hearing what Edmund was saying. He was distracted by the fact that there seemed to be two identical faces in front of him. "Since when do you have a twin brother?" he asked, his voice accusing. He should have been told he had another little brother who he had to keep out of trouble!

Edmund and his twin frowned simultaneously. Then they shrugged and said, "He only appears when you have concussions. Give it some time and he'll go away. Like usual."

Peter blinked again. He was pretty sure he had heard this before, but couldn't place when or where. Then again, the fact that his brain was trying to hammer its way out of the back of his head made concentrating a bit difficult.

"I'm pretty sure that's physically impossible," said Edmund wryly, "not matter how hard you landed on the ground."

Frowning, Peter wondered if he was speaking out loud without knowing it.

"You are. Either that, or the hag's magic made it possible for you to communicate just by thinking at people."

The fog in Peter's mind was starting to clear. "That might be useful, actually."

Edmund shook his head – heads? "It would, which is why I doubt the hag would actually do that." He – they? – moved back and, when the pain subsided slightly, Peter realized belatedly that the younger king had been examining his head without him noticing. "Does anything else hurt? Besides your head and knee?"

Peter tried concentrating beyond the obvious areas of pain. "Not that I can tell." Then he thought of something. "Why does my knee feel like it is trying to leave my leg?"

Edmund – and his twin, who kept fading in and out – sighed "You landed on it wrong," he said, and Peter remembered that he had actually mentioned that before. Edmund continued, "Probably didn't help that it had both your and my weight on it."

That made sense, Peter supposed. It also reminded him that Edmund had also been involved in the event that was the source of his nausea-inducing pain. "Are you hurt?" he asked, furrowing his brow in worry before wincing at the movement.

"Hardly," came Edmund's dry answer. "I had a nice, soft landing."

The humor in Edmund's voice gave Peter pause. Processing the statement in relation to rest of the conversation, Peter frown. Edmund had said he had landed on…"Are you calling me soft?"

Edmund just smiled. "Of course not. That's your concussion talking." The younger king shifted so that Peter could see him better. "And speaking of which, we need to check to see how bad this one is."

After running through the concussion tests to placate Edmund's concern about the state of Peter's present mental faculties – which Edmund claimed were not all that good to begin with, thus making it harder to tell if there was any damage – the brothers attempted to work together to move Peter to a sitting position. This was not fun, and Peter's head protested violently. Only Edmund's steady hands kept Peter from falling over as the world spun every which way. It took a few minutes for Peter's vision to clear and the nausea to settle. Finally, he was able to get a good look at their surroundings.

Peter blinked. Instead of the familiar shade-trees of Swealwen's Grove, they were now in the midst of a dense forest of reeds that towered far over their heads. No grass grew on the extremely rocky ground that looked like it sloped into hills further off. "Where are we?"

Grimacing, Edmund shook his head. "I haven't really had time to look around. Not anywhere I've seen…" He trailed off and stared contemplatively at the reeds, as if seeing them for the first time.

Usually Peter could follow his brother's thought process as it happened, but that ability faltered when he had head injuries. It was better not to even try, lest he accidentally do something like accuse Edmund of wanting to knight a completely unsuitable china cabinet. Again.

So instead Peter waited as Edmund thought. It was not hard to wait, given that Peter was fairly certain that moving would be a Very Bad Idea – at least, according to his knee and head – and he wanted to put it off as long as… "Edmund! What are you doing?" Peter exclaimed, eyes wide.

Edmund paused, still holding a small handful of dirt. "Figuring out where we are," he answered, as if it were obvious.

"By _eating dirt_?"

Edmund did not seem fazed and licked again at the dirt in his hand. "You should have come with me to learn soil composition with the Southern Dryads."

Peter vaguely remembered Edmund traveling near the border with Archenland for this. Mostly he remembered Susan bemoaning the state of Edmund's clothes when he returned. Deciding it was easier just to accept that Edmund could learn their location by eating earth, Peter asked, "So, has the dirt told you where we are?"

"Yes." Edmund's lips tightened, and not from the taste of the dirt. "We're in Swealwen's Grove – the same place we were when the hag attacked."

Peter looked at the exotic reeds that stretched far into the sky. "I think you may need to retake those soil composition lessons."

Edmund glared, but seemed to be giving Peter a little leeway due to his concussion, else Peter suspected he would have gotten a whack on the back of his head for that. "I am rather confident in my horticultural skills. This soil has just the right loam composition for Swealwen's Grove. And those are no reeds I have ever studied. Look at them." Peter obediently focused his eyes on a few of the reeds. "What do they look like?"

Trying to look intelligent, Peter worked to make the necessary mental connections. The reeds were thin, many of them curled and round, some thin and flat. A few were more sheaf-like, so Peter guessed, "Corn?"

"Close. I was thinking grass."

Peter stared at his brother. "Grass?"

Edmund sighed. "Think about it, Peter. _What _were you mocking the hag about?"

"Size?" Understanding was beginning to dawn, and Peter was not sure he liked the picture that was forming.

"Do you remember what she was saying right before setting that spell against us?"

Peter let his head fall gently into his hands. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes." Peter looked up at Edmund, whose face was grim, though the corner of his lips twitched with a smile. "You mocked her about being small. Well, brother mine, it seems she has her revenge…since I believe we are now about the size of an ant."

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I'm posting all four chapters at the same time, so enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

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"So, I suppose we need a plan." Edmund was now sitting next to Peter. Enough time had passed that they could be reasonably certain the hag would not attack them again. Since they were probably only five steps away from her, either she couldn't see them…or she thought their chances of surviving this to be _small_ enough that she did not feel the need to finish them off herself. Peter rather hoped that the hag had just forgotten her glasses, though he suspected this was not the case.

Leaning slightly against his younger brother's side, Peter was thankfully thinking much more clearly. Though, perhaps not to his usual standards as he admitted, "I'm open to suggestions. At the moment, I prefer a plan that doesn't involve a lot of movement." Edmund shook his head, letting out a small, shaky cough as he did. "That's what you get for eating dust," Peter added with a smirk.

The younger king's hand came up, but he again seemed to think twice about the wisdom of smacking a concussed head. "We probably don't have a choice. I don't believe anyone who comes looking for us will think to look down here, or that they could even see us if they did."

There was silence as they thought. Finally, Peter spoke up. "The grass is sparser near trees. And there may be a Dryad that could come to our aid."

Edmund knew this, of course. Likely he had not proposed it for Peter's sake. After all… "The nearest tree – before we were thrown through the air, that is – was probably three yards away." An almost meaningless distance when they were both nearly two yards tall themselves. Now, however, the yards were miles and Peter had to walk on a busted knee. If they could even figure out which direction to walk, with the sun hidden behind clouds and grass. "It will be a hard hike," said Edmund.

"I know."

"It may take us _days_ to get to a tree."

"I know."

"There are dangers we probably haven't thought of yet. And if we get past those, we have no guarantee we'll be found before we starve or freeze to death in a snap frost or something equally terrible and deadly."

"I know."

A pause. "Right. We better get started then."

.

It took some doing to even begin their journey through the underbrush. Edmund managed to scrounge up a somewhat sturdy stick – "Probably a twig," he grumbled as he used his short knife to cut off extraneous branches – so that Peter could lean on it as well as on Edmund. After a brief argument over which way to begin walking, the kings started hobbling in the direction they hoped was east.

Their trek was rather quiet, though Peter was not sure if this was a good thing or not. His head bothered him enough with all the moving, that silence was a relief. However, without conversation, Peter had little to distract him from the burning pain in his left knee. He nearly laughed out loud at the conundrum: to speak and hurt his head, or keep quiet and be preoccupied with the agony of his knee. Which option presented the opportunity for the least amount of pain?

It was perhaps only an hour, though, before the conundrum became a moot point as Edmund returned to his previous habit of clearing his throat and giving small coughs. This just added a third source of pain – utter annoyance – so Peter snapped. "You can just start talking, you know. I think our agreement of silence has long outworn itself, you don't have to wait for me to tell you to speak."

"Huh?" Edmund sounded surprised at the injunction, something that gave Peter pause. "Oh, right. I was…just wondering if you are doing alright."

Peter frowned, turning his head gently so he could look at his brother. Edmund was pale, though that was not unusual in these early spring months. More concerning was the light sheen of sweat beading Edmund's forehead, the contradicting shivers, and the harsh breathing that Peter was mentally kicking himself for not hearing before. Gritting his teeth, Peter used his good leg and wooden crutch to dig in and bring himself and Edmund to a halt. Peter's frown deepened when the usually perceptive Edmund was caught off-guard and stumbled a little before righting himself. "You said you weren't hurt!" Peter's voice was laced with worried accusation.

Edmund's innocent look was belayed by a glaze of fever-brightness in his eyes. "I'm fine, Peter. You're the one with the bad knee and head injury."

"I'm concussed, not blind," Peter growled, angry with himself as much as with Edmund, "and _you_ are ill." Another thought struck Peter and his eyes narrowed. "Even _before_ the hag showed up." How had he missed that Edmund had not been clearing his throat for attention, but from holding back hacking breaths? That those little coughs had been Edmund trying to hide the congestion in his lungs, not trying to annoy his older brother? How had he not seen this?

Edmund shifted, not looking Peter directly in the eye. "I…It's possible that I may be coming down with that flu you had."

Peter decided that this admission deserved his patented 'you are an idiot and as a result I am going to be furious and worried' stare. "Let me get this straight: You were being affected by the same illness that laid me up for two weeks, but _still_ decided to go waltzing away from Cair Paravel _alone_? And you _didn't tell me?_" Edmund _knew_ better. He should have holed himself in his room with a bowl of chicken soup laced with feverfew, being annoyed by healers hovering close by. Not chasing his stupidly _blind_ brother in the brisk air, being attacked by hags, bring _shrunk_, and now dragging a half-crippled older, _taller_ king beneath the _giant blades of grass._

Though he did not say all this out loud, it was inherent in what he _did _say, causing Edmund to wince. "I know, it was stupid. I'm sorry."

The speed of his acquiescence made Peter's worry increase tenfold. Edmund was trying to keep him from looking too closely at _how_ ill the younger king was. Even with a concussion, Peter could tell that Edmund was desperately hiding the signs of illness – something he was unfortunately quite good at, and so for Peter to be able to see it so clearly…Well, there was no way Peter was going to let him get away with hiding anymore. The High King was putting his foot down – preferably the one connected to his uninjured leg. They were going to sit down here and now and Peter would _force _Edmund to tell him _exactly_ what was wrong, and then Peter would _fix _it, and then they would find a way back to normal without anything else bad happening to them. Peter opened his mouth to say as much when Edmund cut him off.

"Look, it's not like we have the resources, or healing skill, to do anything about it, and really I'm not _that_ sick, so we might as well continue on with our leisurely stroll through the grass forest of hidden death."

Peter hated it when Edmund was right.

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Silence again fell between the brothers as they walked. This time, at least, the cause was evident: Edmund was using all his energy to support his brother and fight off the nausea, weakness, and body-racking coughs of his illness, while Peter was busy silently blaming himself for his own idiocy and blindness. At least the self-recrimination kept him distracted from the pain.

Unfortunately, the ground was growing rougher. Clumps of dirt and soil had to be navigated around, and scratches in the ground that would have been miniscule at their normal height were now deep ditches that played havoc on Peter's knee, despite Edmund's best efforts. Though everything on their persons had shrunk along with them – including clothes, thank Aslan – they had few supplies, as the excursion from Cair Paravel was only supposed to take an afternoon. Peter had a bag of mixed nuts and grains, meant for an afternoon snack. Edmund only had a canteen of water with honey to sooth his cough, and he had drunk half before meeting the hag. Their only weapons were their all-purpose knives and Rhindon, which Peter continued to carry after losing a fierce argument with Edmund. (Peter thought the more able-bodied Edmund should have it, while Edmund refused to deprive his brother of his weapon, and besides, Edmund's reflexes were hindered by holding up half of Peter's weight. Peter only gave in after securing a formal promise from his brother that, if attacked, Edmund would allow Peter to fight and would try to find defensive cover for himself. However, Peter was suspicious that Edmund had taken advantage of his concussion and worded the promise to allow the younger king leeway in actually executing the agreed upon actions.)

As the day faded into dusk, both kings realized that they could not go on any further. While better, Peter's head continued to throb and, since seeing a healer was impossible, Peter knew that rest was the best thing for his concussion. However, with Edmund's flu affecting his lungs so badly, Peter worried that letting him sleep might lead to pneumonia settling in an already fragile chest. When Peter expressed this fear, though, Edmund's fever-bright gaze met his look in resignation. "As it is, I'm going to have a hard enough time staying awake to get you up to check your concussion," Edmund admitted as the brothers settled into a depression in the earth under a rock-shelf. Just that hoarse admission gave Peter a sense of nausea that had little to do with his head injury. "I'm not saying pneumonia is inevitable," continued Edmund, who read the concern etched on Peter's face even in the lengthening darkness. "I'm just…we just…you need to rest, so I'll keep an eye on you for as long as I can keep awake, and then we can really only pray that we survive the night."

It was a terrible plan. Unfortunately, it was the only plan they had, so they shared a little grain-mix, and each took a swallow of honey-water, and Peter was asleep before his head finished leaning on Edmund's shoulder.

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"Wake up."  
"Gahuh?"  
"What's your name?"  
"Wha? Gah, it's Peter."  
"Where are we?"  
"In Narnia. In the _grass._"  
"Do you know who I am?"  
"Edmund. My annoying little brother who won't let me sleep even though my concussion was _hours_ ago."  
"…Goodnight, Peter."

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Peter did not know how many times that exchange happened in the night. All he knew was that, at some point, the interruptions stopped and the next thing he knew he was blinking his eyes against the sun. His head, now laying across a pair of trouser-clad legs, still pounded, but Peter realized that even his immediate post-sleep thoughts were clearer than they had been the day before. Of course, this turn of events meant that it only took a few moments for him to recognize the situation.

Scrambling to a sitting position, his head protesting the entire time, Peter shook the sleeping Edmund's shoulders. "Ed, wake up!" The urgency in his voice was more from the rattle in Edmund's breathing than any specific danger, but it was enough to reach the younger king through his fevered dreams. Edmund's eyes darted open and his hand clasped at air where his sword usually rested on campaigns. The movement was enough to jostle a harsh, wet cough from Edmund's lips, which laid a heavy sense of guilt on Peter's shoulders. Why had he let himself sleep, why had he not insisted Edmund wake him up after a few hours so Peter could keep an eye on his brother as the younger king slept? Why had he been such an _idiot_ and annoyed that hag and gotten them into this situation in the first place? Peter held Edmund's shoulders down with a gentle pressure that Edmund should have been able to struggle against better. "Easy, Ed. We're not in any immediate danger." Peter tensed as Edmund let out another series of coughs that wracked his sleight frame, but did not mention it. There was no need to talk about the threat that was in Edmund's lungs – the younger king was all-too aware of it.

Edmund's dark eyes had a sunken look to them, but he was still awake and aware enough for a look of guilt to settle in those eyes as well. "I fell asleep."

Peter gave him a wry smile. "So did I."

"But _I_ was supposed to be making sure you didn't fall into a coma or get eaten by a spider during the night."

"Don't, Ed," warned Peter. "We're both alive, my head hurts, and did you have to mention spiders?" Peter _hated_ spiders, and it was worse now because he knew that spiders ate insects and insect-sized animals and since Peter currently fit into the latter category…

Edmund turned his head to the side. "Was that series supposed to make sense as a collection of related items? Because Lady Garhain would rap your knuckles for mangling Narnian grammatical practice like that."

"I know. But what's more important than grammar or guilt or spiders right now is getting somewhere where we can somehow get help. And healers. Lots of healers."

"You hate healers," Edmund pointed out as he dragged himself to his feet and helped Peter stand.

Peter, headache in full force, looked at his swollen knee, then over at his brother who was pale, breathing unevenly, and listing against Peter for support as much as Peter was leaning on Edmund to stay upright. "Edmund, right now I would give my crown for Healer Ravdos and a packet of powdered willow bark."

Edmund frowned, obviously picturing the chattering Monkey whose voice was usually enough to make patients jump out of bed, healed, just to get away. Then he doubled over with a coughing fit that resulted in a hacked wad of red-tinged sputum on the ground, and left Edmund trembling from exertion. He looked up at Peter's pale face. "I think I agree with you."

It their travels the day before had been hard, today it was practically torturous. Peter's knee, untreated and overworked as it was, had swollen more overnight, so that it was near impossible to bend. His head still throbbed with every movement, and his stamina –already weakened by the flu – had been mostly used up the day before.

Edmund was almost in worse shape. As feared, the night's rest – perhaps augmented by the hag's first attack – had led to Edmund's sickness settling in his lungs. At the moment it was probably a mild case of pneumonia, but it, along with the flu and the physical exertion of their desperate hike, was quickly sapping his strength. He did not even try to talk – breathing was hard enough as it was.

Peter, who had set out from Cair Paravel to gain some peace and quiet in which to think, found himself with too much terrifying quiet and too many terrible thoughts. With a clearer head, the brothers' situation was all-too apparently bleak. The tall reeds of grass loomed darkly over them, blotting out what sunlight peaked from behind grey clouds. The prospect of even a light rain was alarming – images of floods raging through the soil or being crushed by raindrops were barely pushed from Peter's mind. And how long would it take them to reach the sparse ground near a tree? Their canteen was nearly empty and Peter had no idea how to go about collecting more when even the few dewdrops they passed in the morning were as big as him. Then, of course, there was the possibility of wildlife, something that had escaped Peter's thoughts until Edmund's mention of spiders brought it back.

As High King, Peter had battled all sorts of troubling creatures: ogres, minotaurs, werewolves, those accursed Efreeti the thought of which still caused dark fury to well within him. Peter knew how to fight Fell Creatures, he knew how to fight wild animals and Wild Animals. He could best any human knight he came across. But the thought of some of the creatures they might come across in the practically tame grass of Swealwen's Grove was petrifying at their present size.

How was he supposed to protect Edmund if they were set upon by a spider four times their height? A swarm of ants were no longer a picnic nuisance, but an overpowering army that could drown them by sheer numbers. Larger animals like lizards and birds and toads, were potential threats as well. Every rustle and noise now set Peter on edge as he expected to be attacked at any moment.

"Pete?" The furious worry ceased for a moment at Edmund's hoarse voice. Peter looked over at his brother who face was still too white, though Edmund kept his lips in a stubbornly firm line, trying not to betray his weakness. "How's your leg doing?"

It was not yet noon, as far as they could tell, but Edmund's exhaustion was evident. "I could give it a rest, if you don't mind," Peter said nonchalantly. It was not much of a lie, since his knee was burning, and Edmund looked so relieved that Peter would have asked for a rest even if his knee was healed and whole.

As they collapsed nearly in unison, Peter could not help but grimace as Edmund helped him sit. Yes, from the pain, but also from guilt. Here he was, so dependent on his little brother, yet wishing Edmund was far from here, safe and sound in the healing ward of Cair Paravel.

"Stop thinking, Peter, it's bad for your concussion." Peter glared at Edmund, uselessly since the younger king's eyes were closed as he leaned his head on his older brother's shoulder. "We've survived war, witches, Efreeti, and Healer Ravdos. We'll survive this."

Peter put his arm around his brother, holding him closely and frowning at the grating he could _feel _as Edmund breathed. "You shouldn't be here, Ed," he whispered, voice full of worry and guilt.

Two thin, shivering arms snaked around Peter's chest as Edmund buried his face against Peter's shoulder for warmth. His voice was muffled as he said, "I would rather be in trouble with you than be safe at home while you're in danger."

Peter's arms tightened their hold on Edmund, the High King remembering when _he _had been the one to say those words. The situation was so different now, but the danger no less real than in the dungeons of Kaarn. "I would rather you be safe," Peter insisted, but Edmund had fallen asleep, exhausted from their journey and the struggle simply to breathe.

Peter decided that meant he had won the argument.

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	3. Chapter 3

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* * *

The High King woke as a hand closed over his mouth. A brief moment of panic ended when he recognized that the hand belonged to his little brother. He did not have time to think about the fact that he had apparently fallen asleep during their supposedly short rest; it was obvious from the set in Edmund's shoulders and the grim look on his face that some new danger had appeared. "Imps," the younger king whispered and Peter's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. While not much of a threat to a human, Imps terrorized the smaller Animals. Lucy had even set up a Field Guard of Mice, Weasels, and Hounds to ferret out and destroy their hidden dens.

At the kings' present size, an Imp would be as tall as a giant.

With Edmund's help, Peter scrambled to his feet. Despite his leg, despite the fact that Edmund's lips had a blue tint from him trying to breathe without coughing, they had little choice but to run. Or, at least, they had to move as fast as possible away from the Imps. Being caught would _not_ end well for them, if the stories were true. Unfortunately, Peter knew that Imps were quite skilled at tracking and, to make matters worse, Edmund quietly informed him that, from what he overheard, the Imps knew the kings were out there. They could only assume that the hag wanted to make sure her revenge led to their painful deaths.

The kings' path, difficult before, was now treacherous from the speed, however slowed they were by injuries. The ground grew mountainous, but the soil was soft and shifted beneath their feet, impeding their progress. Peter breathed heavily, noting with helpless concern that Edmund could not do the same. If they went on much longer, Edmund's shallow, erratic breathing would surely lead to hyperventilation. But Peter could not even take the energy to growl in frustration and worry; he concentrated on putting one foot in front of another, trying to move quickly and quietly through the towering grass. They had a good head start, and the Imps might not yet have gained their trail. If they could only just keep moving…

Peter could not say who stumbled first; in truth, they could easily have just fallen at the same time. The cause of their downfall was obvious, though. The hill of dirt they had just finished climbing was inherently unstable – the kings' small weight was sufficient to shift the slick grains enough for part of it to collapse beneath them. Neither Peter nor Edmund was prepared for the ground to shift so much, and they stumbled to their hands and knees, the movement triggering an avalanche of earth.

It was nothing like rolling down a grassy hill on a sunlit day. Peter's feet flew over his head, and he tumbled down, sheets of dirt rolling and falling with him. He hit the bottom first, though, and the dirt could only go over him, burying him completely under dark earth. By the time the dirt settle, he could hardly tell which way was up. Regardless, he frantically tried to push through the blanket of earth covering him. He was desperate for air, but to breathe now would lead to the unpleasant situation of drowning in dirt.

One of his hands broke through to air and he quickly tried to follow that path to freedom. Peter felt movement above him and, for a moment, he wondered if he had been found by the Imps. Then a familiar hand grasped his before moving to help Peter remove the dirt above him. There was a rush of air as Peter's face emerged from the earth and he breathed in, hating that the pressure of the surrounding earth kept him from drawing air in too deeply. Still he was thankful for the light nature of the soil, which had kept him from being completely crushed.

With head and one hand free, Peter took a moment to check over his brother who, while escaping the worst of the avalanche, was covered head to toe in dirt. The brown dust nearly covered the fact that Edmund's skin was tinged remarkably blue. And no amount of dirt could hide the fact that his breathing sounded worse. So it was without words that the two kings frantically worked in order to free Peter from his prison of earth.

It was taking too long, though. They had only freed the top of Peter's chest when the sound of Impish laughter echoed through the air. The brothers froze in their movements to listen better; it soon became clear that the Imps were on a path straight towards them. Peter's heart thudded in panic. Even if he were free now, with his knee they would be quickly overtaken. But by himself… "Edmund, listen to me." Peter's voice was harsh, but his tone was that of the High King, which brooked no argument. "Ed, you have to leave."

As could have been easily predicted, Edmund frowned before proceeding to ignore Peter completely and continue his furious digging. Peter grabbed his brother's hands, forcing the younger king to look him in the eyes. "Brother, if you love me at all, protect my heart and go _now_." Peter was desperate, and it showed. He knew he was lost regardless, but if Edmund lived, had a _chance_ to live, then he could die smiling. For a long, too long, moment, the brothers stared at each other, one pleading, the other denying. Edmund glanced quickly up as the sounds of the Imps grew closer. Peter squeezed his hands. "Please, Edmund, _please_ go."

The crack in his voice seemed to destroy the last of Edmund's defenses. The younger king's eyes filled with tears as he removed his hands from Peter's and cradled his older brother's face. Taking a harsh, sobbing breath, Edmund kissed the top of Peter's dirt-dusted, golden head. "Forgive me, brother," he whispered brokenly into Peter's hair. "Forgive me."

Peter sighed with relief. "There is nothing to forgive. I love you." He said this wholeheartedly, wanting those to be his last words.

Edmund pulled back, his eyes suspiciously wet. He stood and looked down at his still-trapped brother. "I love you, too." His voice was low and hoarse. "Forgive me," he said a third time before turning and walking determinedly away. Though frankly terrified at the fate that lay before him, Peter was inordinately relieved to watch his brother's retreat. At least Edmund would get away; at least his brother would be safe.

Then Peter's heart plummeted as Edmund broke into an unsteady run. "No," Peter whispered as realization dawned. "No!" The High King was spurred into motion, desperate to get free, to _move_. Because Edmund was not running away from Peter, moving towards safety. He was running in a straight line, directly towards the Imps that pursued them. "No!" Peter cried once more, a fierce anger rising up as he knew, he _knew_ that Edmund had never intended to follow Peter's last plea, that he never intended to fulfill Peter's greatest wish and save his own life. No, instead Edmund was spending the last of his energy, his last avenue of escape to lead the enemy away from his trapped brother.

The bloody _idiot_.

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Peter worked feverishly, pushing earth, digging himself out of the ground until his fingers bled, but he dared not stop. He heard the sounds of the Imps turning away, their gleeful shouts causing Peter's blood to chill: they had surely caught sight of Edmund. When he finally broke through, he paused only a moment to catch his breath before staggering to his feet. His knee nearly gave out under the strain; thankfully his walking stick was partially visible, sticking out of the dirt.

Gathering his severely lagging energy, Peter hobbled off as fast as he possibly could towards to the sounds of the Imps crashing through the towering grass. All the while his mind raced faster, imagining all the terrible things the Imps could do to Edmund if they caught him, imaging all the terrible thing Peter _himself _would do to his brother when _he _caught up with him. For something like this, Peter might stoop so low as to get Susan to mother Edmund as he recovered from his illness. Or worse, _Mrs. Beaver._

All plans of revenge fled when Peter heard the Imps shouting in triumph. With a chill running down his spine, Peter urged his burning, aching legs to move faster. Only a few moments later, though, Peter slammed to a halt at the worst sound imaginable: it was a choked scream of utter agony that rang through the grass forest like the echo of a church bell at a funeral. "Edmund," he whispered in horror and then he was _sprinting_, knee forgotten as fear and adrenaline coursed through his body, obliterating his pain as desperation overrode everything.

Even as he ran, though, the voices of the Imps began fading into the distance; at Peter's present height he would barely reach the top of their shins, and the extra height gave the Imps an unconquerable advantage of speed. Still, Peter kept on, lungs bursting, heart pounding. Rhindon banged reassuringly against his leg, and Peter burned to use it against these creatures, these _things _that had torn such a sound from his brother's lips. Nothing on earth could stop him from reaching them, from saving his brother, he swore it by all he held dear in the world.

Unfortunately, the sky apparently took this vow as a challenge, for no sooner had the grass grown sparser than a dark shadow swooped overhead. At first Peter barely noticed the shadow, as he had come just far enough to make out the figures of two Imps in the distance, one carrying was look absurdly like a string of fish hanging from a pole over its shoulder. Peter's heart froze and then his anger raged as he realized that the Imp was carrying _Edmund_, his wrists tied to the end of the pole. The scream he had heard must have been over one or both of Edmund's arms coming out of joint; Peter prayed that this had caused Edmund to fall unconscious, for Edmund's body hung so limply…

But Peter had no chance to let his anger and fear fuel him on, for the dark shadow covered the sun. He looked up to see a pair of claws coming at him as a bird as large as a castle swooped down. Peter dove, but it was too late; talons closed around his body and lifted him off the ground. At first Peter was disoriented by the pressure of the wind against his exposed face. Then he realized that this bird was likely taking him back to its nest for dinner; worse, it was taking him away from _Edmund_. Yet there was so little he could do. His arms were caught, his walking stick digging sharply into his side underneath strong claws. Rhindon, too, was trapped. Even if he had a free hand, there was little Peter could do, not this high up. He was stuck, moving further from his brother more and more each second. And he was destined to be a bird's supper. Wonderful.

After too long, the bird slowed and Peter was abruptly dropped onto a tree limb. Instantly he tried to scramble away, but a claw came down and trapped him against the wood. Peter sent a silent prayer to Aslan, but knew there was little hope of escape. However, apparently Aslan was willing for at least one miracle to happen.

.

"I know, it's a bit small. Those Imps have been either taking or scaring away the better stuff."

"It's alright, dear, you do your best. We'll just make do with what we can."

Peter lay there, dumbfounded. Was he imagining…?

"I know what you're thinking, love, and none of that. The eggs need you with all your strength, so you _will_ eat the whole insect."

"Dear, you are the one spending all day hunting; you need your energy, too."

"That's very kind, but…"

"Excuse me." Peter finally found his voice, hope rising as he realized that these were _Talking_ Birds, a nesting pair by the sound of it.

There was a pause. Then the male voice said, "Darling, did you hear that?"

The female Bird answered, "It _sounded _like it came from the food, but Aslan didn't _make _any Talking Insects."

"I'm not an insect!" Exclaimed Peter loudly, pounding against the talon that held him trapped.

The claw moved and Peter roughly used his walking stick to climb to his feet. Above him stood a Swallow, who gazed at him in amazement. Another Swallow, the female, poked her head over the mud nest which was against the trunk of the tree to the right of the branch on which Peter stood. The male Swallow leaned his head closer and Peter forced himself not to flinch at the closeness of the beak that looked like it could eat him in one bite. Eyes wide, the male Swallow drew back. "Well I'll be. I don't think it _is_ an insect."

"It has six legs," commented the female Swallow and Peter realized what had confused them.

"Begging your pardon, madam," Peter said, loudly so they could both hear, "I have two legs, two arms, a sword, and a walking stick. I'm a human, placed under a spell by a hag that has shrunk me to this size." He had figured it would be best to be honest; by their previous conversation, the Swallows were no allies to the Imps and hag.

The male Swallow again examined him closely. "I say. A human….oh, I see, indeed. Pardon my mistake, sir…oh! Oh, oh, is it possible?" the Swallow hopped backwards, his wife looking at him in concern from her nest. "Surely not. But is it possible? Could it be?"

Guessing as to what the Swallow referred to, Peter spoke confidently. "I am High King Peter, my good Swallows, though only a fraction of what I was."

The male Swallow sputtered in astonishment, and the female Swallow squeaked. Thankfully, the lady was able to collect herself. "Your majesty, I am Dina and this is my husband, Martin."

"Please excuse me," said Martin with a bow. "I was not expecting…"

"It is no matter," interrupted Peter. "But I am not now able to seek your hospitality. I must return to where you found me." He grit his teeth as his knee threatened to give out on him even now, but he had to ignore it. After all… "My brother, King Edmund, is under the same enchantment as I, and has been captured by a pair of Imps." Captured, not killed.

Dina and Martin Swallow looked at each other. "Your majesty," said Dina softly, "those Imps have caused even the Field Guard problems. At your present size…I can't think you could go against them."

Peter knew this was true. "Nevertheless, I must try. I'm not leaving my brother in their clutches; who knows that they will do, and Edmund is already…he's very ill."

He did not like the pained look the Swallows exchanged. Martin spoke with his wife in hushed whispers as Peter struggled to push past the haze of pain he was in to hear what they had to say. Before long, though, Martin returned his attention to the king. "Your majesty, I will take you as close as I can to where we believe the Imp's lair lies. I would offer my services against them, but…"

The Swallow's eyes darted to his wife and nest, and Peter was quick to reassure him, "It is more than I can ask you even to take me close to them. You must think first of your family."

Dina spoke then, her voice gentle and comforting – Peter thought she sounded like a good mother should. "I dare not leave our eggs, but I will still be able to send for help."

Peter bowed. "Thank you. Indeed, if you could get word to Cair Paravel that King Edmund is in need of our sister's cordial, it would be the greatest service to us." Then he turned to Martin. "If you are ready, my good Swallow."

Martin looked at him in concern and Peter tried to straighten up as best he could – he had been listing a bit too far to the side. "Your majesty, should you not rest first?"

"I will rest when my brother is no longer in fear for his life, and the Imps no longer plague Narnia. Now, if you will." There was no use arguing with the High King, not on this. So despite the fact that Peter ached everywhere, his knee was about ready to completely revolt, and his head pounded in harmony – no, it was more a melody – with his knee, the High King allowed a giant Talking Swallow to lift him from the safety of the tree and fly him towards his brother and certain danger.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

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* * *

The flight this time was more exhilarating, yet still terrifying. There was something primordially horrific about being clutched in the claws of a relatively giant bird. Still, if it got him to his brother, he would ride a spider if he had to. Martin let him down gently once they reached their destination some few minutes later. As Peter tried to get his legs to work correctly, the Swallow spoke in a soft, scared voice. "The Imps' lair is thought to be in this general area. I do not wish to leave you here alone…"

"You must get to safety," Peter firmly told him. It was bad enough that he had to use an untrained civilian for this much. "Please, return to your family."

Martin bowed. "I will see if I can find any of the Field Guard to come to your aid. I could do nothing less," he continued at Peter's frown. "I could not look my wife and nestlings in the face did I not do so." Peter nodded and thanked the Swallow, who quickly took off again.

Peter allowed himself a moment to check out his surroundings. Grass still towered overhead, but the ground was more flat. As he tried to visualize the bigger picture, Peter noticed that the space between reeds of grass was larger to one side: a gap large enough to be a path for the Imps. Not really having anything else to go by, Peter headed in that direction. He vaguely hoped he would be able to find his way back, since how else would Martin, or any aid he fetched, find him again?

_Oh, that would be just great to tell Edmund: 'Look, we escaped from the Imps! Hope you don't mind that we're going to starve to death because I took a wrong turn at that last pebble'. _If Peter could have spared the energy he would have growled and punched a reed of grass in utter frustration. He was moving too slowly, he was lost, he was pretty much dragging his leg behind him, and he was fairly certain he was walking on a layer of old animal excrement, if the odor was any judge. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, but Peter doggedly kept moving down what he hoped was the path to the Imps' lair. He may be slow, lost, injured, smelly, and tired, but _confound it_ if he would let Edmund get away with the whole idiotic self-sacrificing bit. Peter would have _words_ about that.

The sound of gravely voices reached Peter before he saw anything. On guard, Peter slunk through the shadows of the grass, swiftly and silently. Well, he _attempted_ to slink swiftly and silently, but he ended up mostly staggering forward haphazardly, nearly tripping over his own feet. Thankfully, Imps were boisterous creatures and loved arguing with each other at high volumes, so Peter was able to approach the grass-thatched hovel and slip-stagger through the large door without being noticed by the two Imps that were arguing on the right side of a blazing fire. The heat was nearly unbearable, but the flames easily hid Peter from the distracted Imps as he made his way to the terribly familiar, crumpled form to the left of the hearth.

Kneeling slowly and gingerly beside Edmund, Peter breathed a sigh of relief at his brother's harsh, too-shallow breathing – he was alive. He was in bad shape, though: in addition to his pneumonia, his left shoulder was severely dislocated, and his face was puffy and bruised. Peter wished he could be happy that Edmund was unconscious, not feeling the pain as much, but he was not. With his knee as it was, there was little chance Peter could carry Edmund to safety. Even the smallest amount of help Edmund could give would be vital for escape. And so it was with the greatest reluctance that Peter hissed into his little brother's ear: "You are in _so _much trouble, Ed, and it will be worse if you don't wake up this instant." As expected, but hardly welcomed, Edmund barely groaned in response, just continued with his increasingly vain struggle for breath. "Edmund, so help me, I _will _tell Susan about what _really _happened at Amansil'din."

Peter watched, relieved, as Edmund's eyes fluttered open – amazing what a well-placed threat could do, not that Peter ever would have gone through with that particular one. Not when the whole point of this was to keep Edmund _alive_. For once, the attempt seemed to actually go as planned, since the Imps were still arguing and Edmund was waking. The confusion in the younger king's eyes was evident, compounded by his illness, but there was no time to explain. "Come on, we have to get out of here." Peter moved slowly and deliberately to help Edmund sit up. Somehow, with Edmund's good arm around Peter's shoulder, the brothers managed to stand and hobble slowly, so slowly, towards the entrance of the hovel.

.

Amazingly, their movement was not noticed and they made it out the door and started down the path. Peter was certain that Edmund was still barely conscious, but there was little either could do as they trudged forward. '_If we can just make it a little further, we may get out of this alive…'_ Peter thought before being rudely interrupted by the unhappy bellows of Imps who had just noticed that their dinner had run off. '_Running would be good about now_.' But of course, Peter and Edmund were barely staggering forward; running was an absurd dream. As the sounds of Imps crashing towards them grew louder, Peter felt a sense of calm fall over him. They were going to die, he realized simply.

As if concurring with Peter's thoughts, Edmund's knees began buckling and Peter struggled to help him sit down before he fell over, leaning him against a boulder – well, a pebble that was the size of a boulder to them. Peter, sitting on his knees – sitting on one, trying to keep his weight off the other – looked his brother in the eyes. Edmund looked back, eyelids lowered to exhausted slits, but his gaze was resigned. Peter gave him a sad smile, and reached out, gently brushing an unruly lock of hair away from Edmund's pale-blue face. Edmund returned the smile and nodded. Then Peter struggled to his feet, drew Rhindon, and prepared to face his death.

He would not be left waiting long. With inhuman growls, the Imps crashed through the grass, clubs in hand. They came up short at seeing Peter, leaning on his walking stick and barely able to hold up his sword. A predatory grin was mirrored on both ugly Imp faces, grotesquely elfin as they were. "_More_ snacks," one growled and the Imps laughed gleefully. Peter held his head high, glaring at them as only a High King could. The Imps sauntered forward, clubs raised. Peter forced his body to hold Rhindon in a defensive stance, ready to try and foolishly parry the inevitably lethal blow…

…only to end up with his vision obscured by a wall of grey fur. "En garde, foul creatures!" boomed a silky voice, and Peter jerked backwards in shock, barely remembering to drop his sword before he accidentally skewered himself as he tumbled to the ground. Sitting in the dust, Peter stared numbly as the Fur pounced at the Imps, the shine of steal glinting silver in front of it. Peter blinked and he realized that the Fur was, in reality, a mouse. A _Talking _Mouse, if the curses spewing forth were any indication.

The Imps were shouting in anger, then shrieking in horror, and then silent. Peter blinked again and suddenly the Mouse was towering over him, coming closer. The High King nearly panicked until he realized the Mouse was bowing. "What…?"

"Greetings, your majesties. I am Neepicheek of the Field Guard. Thank Aslan, Martin was able to find me and I was able to get here on time."

Peter, still dazed at not being dead, took a moment to compose himself. Then he inclined his neck in return. "Thank you for your timely help, my good Mouse. Now I ask again for your aid: we need medical attention." Peter looked next to him, where Edmund was still leaning against the pebble, his eyes closed and his lungs gasping for air. "And we need it _now._"

0000000000

Neepicheek was surprisingly gentle as he lifted the two tiny kings into his arms. Not that Peter had any idea where the Mouse was taking them; Edmund had fallen unconscious again and Peter was spending what little energy he had on watching every agonizing breath that his brother struggled to take. Considering how short a time it was before Neepicheek came to a stop, Peter idly wondered if he had not dozed off himself.

Whether he had failed in his vigil or not, at least Peter could tell that Edmund still lived by the pained groan he let out when jostled as Neepicheek halted his walk. Peter, though hating his brother's pain, could not help but rejoice at the stop for Neepicheep was bellowing out towards newcomers. Towards _Lucy_. Sure enough, a shadow fell across them and Peter could make out the gigantic, worried face of his sister. "Lucy! Quickly, Edmund is badly off, he needs cordial!"

After a moment's pause when they all realized that Peter's voice was too small for Lucy to hear, the High King had Neepicheek repeat his words for her. Through this frustrating system, Peter managed to get across their situation. Eventually, Neepicheek set the kings down in a sparse patch of grass, Peter holding Edmund upright so the latter could have some relief in his breathing.

Unfortunately, though, when Lucy uncorked the diamond flash, she hesitated. "Peter," she whispered, though her voice was as loud as thunder to the tiny king. "Peter, how will he drink it? A drop is still many times the size of his lips."

Peter blinked, and then he remembered the impossible dewdrops from before. He looked up at Neepicheek, but the Mouse had no answers either. Closing his eyes, Peter tried desperately not to let frustrated tears escape, even as he felt each pained, shuddering breath rasping through Edmund's chest. They were so close! The cordial was _there_, held in a desperately worried Lucy's hand. It was _right there_, but it was useless while they were this small. Peter could hear Lucy above them, trying to reassure him that Susan was hunting down the hag, that they would force the creature to remove the curse, that Edmund would be fine. There was no reason to heed useless platitudes.

And they _were _useless. Peter had been around dying men before; he had held _Edmund _before as he was dying. So Peter knew what a dying man looked like, felt like, and he saw and felt it in Edmund now. For all their struggles, for all that Edmund was still fighting the shadowed veil, they were out of time. _Peter _had run out of time and he had failed. Failed to protect Edmund from the hag's curse. Failed to protect him from the Imps. Failed to even get Edmund a pinch of the healing cordial he needed to save his life, even now on the brink of…

No.

Peter's eyelids shot open, his eyes burning with unshed tears and determination. His brother was _not _going to die in his arms with salvation only inches away. Gently moving Edmund to the side, Peter laid him on the ground, wincing at the strangled hitch in the younger king's breathing. Using his trusty walking stick, Peter gathered all his severely depleted strength to stand. Mind racing, Peter studied the rocky earth in front of him. "Lucy?" he asked and Neepicheek repeated. "Do you have anything waterproof that could hold a drop of fireflower juice?"

Lucy thought for a moment, then hurriedly began doing, well, something. Peter was presently so light-headed and nauseated that he was having a hard time focusing his eyes. Maybe standing was not such a great idea. Soon enough, however, a tiny square of treated leather was handed to Neepicheek, who placed it gently on the ground next to Peter. The smell was a bit overwhelming, but Peter was really past the point of caring. Instead, he slowly bent over, almost kneeling, and pushed against the leather until it dipped inwardly, creating a bowl-effect. That done, Peter instructed Neepicheek to ask Lucy to pour a drop of cordial on the leather.

Peter could not but smile when Lucy did as asked without any hesitation, strange as the request might seem. Older though she was, Lucy still maintained her childhood belief in her eldest brother, belief that he could fix everything. Peter could only pray that her faith was not misplaced, at least not with this; the cost of failure was too high.

Due to Lucy's gentle, steady hand, the cordial drop landed neatly on the leather, sliding smoothly into the dip. The drop as at least as tall as Peter, and as wide as it was tall. It glinted red as blood in the sparse sunlight, and the ethereal, light fragrance overpowered the stench of leather. Peter stared at the drop, the rasps of Edmund's breathing like a terrible clock, counting down the time he had left. Hesitantly, Peter raised his hand and gently poked the drop with a finger, which broke through the surface like a knife through butter. The drop did not fall apart, instead sticking to his skin.

Peter removed his finger and reached for his short knife. Using it, Peter started slowly slicing, scooping through the liquid. He was not sure if it would work, but when the palm-sized droplet he was carving separated and coalesced neatly in his hand, Peter silently and fervently thanked Aslan that his actions had not ended with the larger drop falling apart and falling on _him._

Staring at the droplet in his hand, Peter hesitated. Edmund's breathing was – somehow – getting worse, but he dared not test this on his unconscious brother. Deciding that considering all potential dangers was a waste of time, and besides he was himself probably going to collapse completely in the next few minutes anyway, Peter brought his hand up to his lips. He treated the small bit of cordial like a drink that was barely brimming over the rim of a mug, and supped a tiny bit of it. Peter nearly coughed as the liquid flowed into his mouth – unused to having more than a drop of cordial at a time – and he swallowed quickly.

Almost instantly he felt the too-familiar magic of the fireflower begin working on his injuries. His knee stopped throbbing in agony, and the headache – which had been so persistent that he had become numb to its presence – flared and then subsided. The nausea and dizziness from his concussion disappeared as well. His exhaustion remained – not being an injury to cure – and so Peter pushed himself to stumble to Edmund's side, carefully cradling the rest of the now smaller droplet in his hand.

Usually Peter would have taken the time to set Edmund's arm first, which would hasten the healing process and be less painful. At the moment, however, the dislocated shoulder was the least of Peter's worries. Exponentially, frighteningly more worrying was the fact that Edmund was no longer breathing, save for too-occasional, shallow, useless gasps. Cursing at himself for being so slow, Peter held the fireflower juice droplet steady in his left hand as he used his right arm to lift Edmund up, shaking him roughly.

"Ed! Ed, wake up!" Nothing. Peter felt tears begin to return. Forcing Edmund to drink while unconscious, injured, and gasping as he was now was just asking for Edmund to choke on it, for him to mortally inhale the liquid that should have saved him. He would go through with it if he had to, but Peter had no desire to be the one to give the final blow that ended the life which Edmund was so determinedly struggling to keep. "Please. Please, Edmund, wake up. Just a little bit. Please."

Anyone else would have ignored the annoying voice begging for the very last of their energy for such an absurd thing as 'waking up'. But darned if Edmund did not listen to his brother and fight, impossibly, against utter unconsciousness. Well, he did his best at least, and if Edmund never really managed _complete _consciousness, considering he had to give up the fight to breathe in order to flutter his eyelashes slightly, Peter took what he could get and squeezed the fireflower juice into Edmund's gasping mouth.

As Peter feared, Edmund began coughing, weak empty gags more than actual coughs. But the coughs did not lead to choking. Instead, they grew, if not stronger, more full. Elation ran through Peter as he realized that the cordial was working, elation tempered only by the fact that Edmund did not have the strength left to cough as he should. Quickly, the older king lifted Edmund so that he was lying in Peter's lap, upright against his chest and leaning forward. The angle helped and Peter was relieved as each cough cleared more from his brother's lungs – however disgusting the results of the coughs could be (he had already given these trousers up for loss, so it did not really matter).

No, what mattered more than anything in the world was that air was getting into Edmund's lungs, his skin was moving from grey-blue to pale-pink, and his shoulder was nearly back in its rightful place. When Edmund finally slumped back against Peter it was because he could finally take in air without his chest heaving and rattling. And as Neepicheek related the good news to Lucy, Peter just held his brother in his arms, rejoicing in feeling the steady movement of his chest.

"Peter?" Edmund's voice was quiet, ringing with exhaustion, but marvelously clear.

"Yes, Ed?"

Edmund paused, then spoke wryly and wearily. "I think I really like breathing." It was said with such amazed conviction that Peter could not help but burst out laughing. If Edmund felt salty tears fall on the top of his head, he did not say anything about it. He only brought his hands up to grip Peter's arms, which still encircled Edmund's blessedly-clear chest.

Their grips did not even slacken when, a few moments later, the two kings finally, _finally _gave into exhaustion and fell asleep where they sat.

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"You must admit, they are rather adorable like that."

"Perhaps if they were _slightly _bigger. They remind me too much of insects at that size." A pause. "Has there been any luck at changing that?"

"Pentanthera thinks she may have figured out what the hag did. And if anyone can reverse it, she can."

"Well, after that incident with the honeysuckle and the squirrel…" A rustle of skirts. "Peter? Su, I think he's waking."

A gentle voice whispered over him, "Go back to sleep, Peter. Edmund is well and you're both safe."

Back into restful darkness.

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Peter woke up flailing, the world swirling around him. Unfortunately, the flailing led to tangling with another set of limbs, and then he was rolling, falling, and landing with an undignified squawk on a rather fluffy rug. Wait.

Rug?

Blinking, Peter opened his eyes, at the very moment a flurry of silk swarmed him, more limbs added to the tangle. "It worked! Oh, we were so worried! You disappeared and then the guard was reporting what happened and the need for cordial and you were so _small_!"

Somewhere near Peter's left arm and – Susan's? – right foot, Edmund groaned. "Lucy, I love you, but I was getting used to breathing again, so could you loosen your grip a little?"

At the reminder of all that had happened to them, to Edmund, Peter turned and lunged at his little brother, who was looking a bit disheveled and grumpy at having been woken. Susan squeaked as she was slightly crushed in the movement, but Peter was intent on getting at Edmund. The High King managed to wiggle his arm past Lucy and curl it around Edmund's stomach, and he laid his head on his brother's arm, relaxing only at the feel of his steady pulse. Peter began to speak, to pour out the guilt that tormented him even now: "I'm so sorry, Ed, so sor…oof, Susan!"

Gentle as she was considered by their people, Susan had sharp elbows. "Sorry, just getting comfortable."

"Also," added Lucy as she somehow managed to snuggle closer to her elder siblings, "she wanted to stop you before you began pontificating about your guilt for whatever happened out there. It's not healthy, and certainly not conducive to sleep, which is what you are going to do now." The last was said in her stern healer's voice, which brooked no argument.

Not that this ever stopped Peter. "So you're saying that asking forgiveness for nearly getting Edmund killed is less restful than sleeping _on the floor_?" The complaint was followed by a more reactionary than pained "Ouch!" as Edmund managed to maneuver to slap Peter upside the head.

"Peter?"

The High King shifted so he could partially see Edmund's face; the younger king's eyes glinted with fond mirth. "Yes, Ed?"

"Do you _really _want to argue against Susan _and _Lucy?"

Peter pondered this. On the one hand, he was the High King of Narnia and entitled to feel insanely guilty about everything that had happened to Edmund because of him. On the other hand, sisters. "So, sleep?"

Edmund smirked. "Sleep," he agreed and the four siblings snuggled closer together and quickly fell into a dreamless, untroubled sleep – all content to be back at their right sizes and all happily, blessedly alive.

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